


talking backwards

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [5]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Drug Use, Fellcest - Freeform, M/M, Marijuana, Purring skeletons, Underfell Sans, cross-universe bullshit shenanigans, kustard - Freeform, sex as coping strategy, sex under the influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-18 14:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14215248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Red loves being a bad influence.





	1. Chapter 1

"Got something for you," Red says as soon as the shortcut's over. His grin is all wicked trouble.

Sans gives him an unimpressed look. "Is it your dick?"

"Heh. If you want, but that ain't the only thing." For obscure Red reasons, Red dropped them in the living room instead of his bedroom. He drops onto the couch, propped against the arm, and pats the space beside him. "C'mere."

"This isn't suspicious at all," Sans says, even as he goes and sits beside Red. "Is this the part where I wake up in a tub full of ice missing my kidney? Because I hate to tell you, that 'get rich quick' scheme is kinda boned on account of I don't have organs."

"Shit, and here I already blew the money on blackjack and mustard." Red pulls a baggie out of his hoodie pocket and dangles it. "And weed."

Sans blinks. "You're shitting me."

"Nope," Red says.

"Is this a 'what Edge doesn't know won't kill him' situation?" Sans asks. "Because what he doesn't know but eventually finds out will kill you and probably me."

"Look at you, talking about honesty," Red says. "That's precious. But don't sweat it. He knows."

"He knows that you have drugs and you're using them when he's not here," Sans says. The swaying of the bag in Red's hand is slightly hypnotic. It's possible that this sleep deprivation thing is getting out of hand. "And he's totally cool with that. Seems legit."

"It's just weed, dude," Red says. "It's not like I can't kill someone when I'm high."

"Neat," Sans says flatly. "So glad to hear it."

"Self defense," Red says, a little terse. Then he shrugs. "Weed, sex and booze are pretty much the only things that keep me from flipping my shit back home. We don't exactly have shrinks."

Home. Sans doesn't wince. "So I'm here to babysit you? Sounds fun."

"You're here to help me smoke it," Red says. "Call it a charitable donation to the cause of pulling the stick out of your ass."

"You should put that on your tax return," Sans says. "Weirdly, I don't need to be high to fuck you."

"That doesn't even have to be on the table," Red says. "Although I wouldn't exactly be mad about it. I'm used to smoking on my lonesome. Maybe I want some company to watch TV and talk about string theory."

"And blackmail material," Sans says.

Unrepentant, Red grins. "That too. It's, heh, high time we both got to chill. You know you wanna."

The annoying thing is that Red's right. It's been a long time, even longer than the sex thing. It seemed like more trouble that it was worth to scrounge up weed. Anybody he'd trust enough to use it with was somebody he might tell too much if the smoke loosened his tongue. Besides, sometimes it felt like the tension was the only thing stringing his bones together. 

But fuck, he's tired of carrying it.

Bad decision time. Sans shrugs. "Okay. Since you're being charitable and everything, let's reenact an afterschool special."

He knows his limits. He'll stop long before he hits them. Let Red get wrecked; if he's twitchy enough to go to the trouble of hunting down weed, he could use an easy night.

"Sweet," Red says, looking genuinely pleased. He pulls a pipe from his inventory. It's about as cliche as his lighter. "I love being a bad influence. When's the part where you turn to sucking dick for drugs?"

"We can do that later if you want," Sans says.

"That a green flag for fucking while you're high?" Red asks, interested. He starts packing the pipe, fingers deft and experienced. Show-off. "'Cause I'm down but I'm gonna need you to tell me now. Consent and shit."

"Sure," Sans says. He's never tried that before. He only ever smoked up with Alphys; he had lots of friends but he trusted her. They'd never fucked. He liked her too much to risk messing it up. He knows Red doesn't expect anything and so Sans can't let him down. Sex could be interesting. "Just don't get kinky on me."

"No rubber chickens. Got it."

Sans shifts his weight, glancing towards the door. "Should we maybe take this to the bedroom?"

Red smirks. "What, you're not down with a little exhibitionism?"

"Not if it involves your brother, no," Sans says.

"Look at Mr. Fun Police over here. Relax. What with your delicate sensibilities and everything, Boss is gonna call before he comes home." Red finishes packing the pipe and pulls out his lighter. Lights up. The weed catches and the first sweet-smelling thread of smoke rises through the dim light of the living room. Red grins. "Shotgun?"

"If you want." Sans gives a surprised laugh when Red grabs him by the front of the hoodie and pulls until it's either climb on Red's lap or be yanked face-down across it. He takes the first option because he seriously doesn't want to hear what Red would have to say about the second.

"I do want," Red says. "Hi. This seems familiar."

Perched on Red's lap, Sans has an excellent view of Red's leer and of the darker than usual circles under his eyes. There's a strain in his smile. A better person would probably ask if he was okay, but Red isn't that much different than Sans. Why address a problem when you can avoid it? Instead, he says, "I think I saw a porno like this once."

"Yeah, it's the one where the dude rides somebody's fingers. I got a new one for you." Red holds the pipe out between his fingers, the end almost touching Sans's teeth. "Here. Hopeless squares first."

"Golly, mister," Sans deadpans. "Are you sure I should take candy from strangers?"

"Hot," Red says, eyes bright. "Now call me daddy."

"You're about twenty years late on child support, daddy," Sans says. He takes a drag while Red chuckles. The smoke hits his throat and burns there, trickling up from under his shirt where it escapes between his ribs. It smells green.

Red could probably get a secondhand high off the smoke that's escaping Sans's eyesockets, but Red still leans forward and takes his mouth. Sans hums, pressing closer, one hand braced on the back of the couch beside Red's head, bracketing him in.

When Red pulls back, his grin is a little softer on the edges. Maybe one hit is enough to put that look on his face. Sans doubts it.

"Yeah," Red says, voice rough. "This is gonna be fun."

###

It turns out that there are problems with the whole moderation plan. The problems are as follows:  
1) The kind of weed that two nerdy college students could score is apparently really shitty compared to what can be found by one incredibly sketchy bastard with connections.  
2) Sans is an idiot who tries to keep pace with somebody who has literally five times his HP.  
3) He doesn't want to stop kissing Red. It seems intricately tied with eating the smoke out of his mouth. The fact that Red is his fuckbuddy and Sans doesn't need an excuse to make out with him seems less important every time.

End result: Sans is deeply, hilariously fucked up.

"Red," Sans says.

They're horizontal. That happened at some point. Red's stretched out on the couch with Sans on top of him, Sans's wadded up hoodie shoved behind his head. Laying on Red would probably be uncomfortable if Sans wasn't lit, but it's easier to get his mouth on Red's throat that way and Red makes some really great noises when Sans licks his throat.

"What?" Red says. His fingers trace Sans's spine through his shirt. He had them digging into Sans's shoulders a while ago. That was nice.

Sans lifts his head to look at him. "Red."

Red raises a brow. He can't manage the same haughty coolness as Edge, mostly because his eyelights aren't quite focused. "Yeah."

Sans grabs a handful of his shirt. Somehow Red is still wearing clothes. Maybe it's revenge for Sans not taking his off. That'd be like Red. Very seriously, he says, "Red."

"Holy shit, you're a lightweight," Red laughs. "What?"

Sans leans closer to him, or tries to, because there's not very much space between them. But it's important information. Critical. "You're purring."

It's a small purr, rusty and soft, like a secret. Sans can feel it thrumming in Red's ribcage.

"Well, yeah," Red says, glancing away. His face is a little pink. "I'm high. You've heard me do it before. So?"

"I like it," Sans says.

Red's hand spreads on Sans's back, touching his ribs. "You're doing it too, dumbass. 'S loud."

Huh. Sans hadn't noticed. Between one hit and another, he'd gone from kind of warm and comfortable to too high to stand up. Still warm, though. Still comfortable. Why did he always try to leave after sex when Red was this nice to curl up with? He needs to leave a note for himself next to the ones about the resets so he doesn't forget.

Sans touches his throat. There the purr is, like a boat motor. He swallows. "Yeah, kinda thought it was broken. Can't make it quieter. Sorry. You still wanna have sex?"

"Why the fuck are you sorry, you weirdo?" Red asks, like that's the relevant bit of information here.

"Might feel good if I had your dick down my throat. The purr, I mean." Red stares at him. Sans asks, "What?"

Half-laughing, Red says, "Holy shit. Is this what it takes to get dirty talk out of you?"

"It's not dirty talk," Sans says. "It's an idea for an experiment. Doing science here."

"Heh." Red digs his fingers into Sans's spine. Sans's purr kicks up a couple notches. "So weed makes you horny. Got it."

Sans grinds down against Red's hip, just trying to get a little friction. The low-key want that had been there but not urgent while he was riding Red's lap or making out with him for an obscene amount of time has crept up on him all at once. Red inhales sharply, eyes flaring brighter.

"Do you still wanna?" Sans asks again. If not, he'll stagger to the bathroom and take care of it himself. 

"Yeah," Red says, dragging the word out. He shifts under Sans, pulling his shorts down off his hips. Bad news: that requires Sans to stop grinding against him for a minute. Good news: Red's magic shaped a dick for him to match the one Sans has had since Red started moaning. Sans starts to slide down his body, and Red pulls him back. "Nuh-uh. I'm not putting anything in your mouth. While I got you like this, I wanna hear you."

"You're such an asshole," Sans says. "I'm not this much of an asshole."

"You're exactly this much of an asshole," Red says. "Sanses are assholes. It's a universal trait."

"Your mom's a universal trait," Sans says.

"I mean, probably," Red says. "If we have different genetics and a different background, are we still two versions of the same person? What're the limits there? At what point are we just two dudes with the same name?"

Sans considers that. "Whoa. Deep."

"I'm a deep guy," Red says. "Now take your damn pants off."

"Yeah, yeah." Sans gets his shorts far enough down that they won't get jizz on them. Anything else takes more coordination than he's got right now. "You're just dropping philosophy on me 'cause you're trying to get on my pants. Jokes on you. I wanna fuck you even when you're being a dick."

"Is that so," Red says, like he's trying not to laugh. Fucker. "I couldn't tell."

"I wanna fuck you pretty much all the time," Sans says. "It's really unfortunate."

"Am I supposed to be sorry? 'Cause I'm not," Red says. He licks his palm, getting it wet, a distracting flash of tongue through the gaps in his fingers.

"That's because you're the evil clone," Sans says. "Maybe draw a goatee on with marker--" Red puts an arm around Sans and bodily hauls him into a better position like it's nothing. Their dicks line up, the first direct touch Sans has had since this whole thing started. The pleasure is slow and thick and all-encompassing. He says, "Oh shit."

Red takes both of their cocks in hand, a loose grip, warm bone and warm magic. He moans for the touch of his own hand, or maybe for the way Sans hitches in air and grabs a handful of Red's shirt. Voice thick with smoke and sex, Red says, "Good?"

Sans nods jerkily. He can't tear his eyes off Red's hand, the precome mixing with spit and keeping things slick, the contrast of colors between Red's magic and his. Cold blue and marrow red.

"Talk to me," Red says.

Sans glances up at him. Red looks at him, seeing too much, giving just as much back. Those dark circles under his eyes... Sans isn't the only one who needs this. He shudders and looks away. Swallows. His mouth is dry. "Y'know, Red, we're n-no strangers to love."

He feels Red's laugh more than he hears it. The slow slide of Red's hand doesn't stop. "Hey, man, you know the rules and so do I. I just wanna tell you how I'm feelin'."

How the fuck does Red talk so much during sex? During stoned sex, no less? Aside from the little growl in his voice, he could be doing the crossword. It's hard for Sans to even piece two thoughts together right now. Trying to joke and not turn into a goddamn mess is impossible, but he gives it a shot. "Well, you gotta make me unders--" A shuddering moan catches in his throat and he loses the thread entirely. "Fuck, Red."

"Yeah," Red says, satisfaction rich in his voice like Sans gave him something.

This is a mistake. It's too honest. Sans needs to just call it. Red would let him go. He knows that much. But he's about as able to make himself stop as he is to fix the machine, to fix anything in his shitty pointless life, and he doesn't want to. He wants to stay here.

So he covers Red's fingers with his own. He keeps his wrist slack, following Red's lead, and rubs his thumb over the head of Red's dick on every stroke. Catches himself just as often, but he's okay with being collateral damage.

Red shudders. Says, "You're way too stoned to be helpful," but not like he's going to make Sans stop.

"Your face is too stoned to be helpful," Sans mutters, his own face pressed against Red's shoulder. He's the most helpful. He isn't even trying to make Red go faster. Witness the lengths of his generosity.

Ha. Lengths. He'll have to tell Red that one later.

Red twists his wrist on the next stroke. Sans arches, trying to follow it, to make Red give him more. His fingers tighten on Red's, and Red puts the brakes on entirely. Sans doesn’t whine, but he comes embarrassingly close.

"I've got this," Red says. "It's my turn anyway."

Sans can't remember whose turn it is. It does make sense for the one with actual coordination to handle the steering. Grudgingly, he eases up his grip, pressing his thumb against the tip of Red's dick. Teases the slit to make Red curse. He can't make it too easy for him. He doesn't want Red to get ideas.

Still, it's kind of nice not to have to do anything more complicated than listen to Red's rusty motor purr and watch Red's hand move, getting wetter with precome on every stroke. He can't tell if Red's deliberately torturing him or if he's so relaxed that the pleasure just rolls over him in slow waves, building higher instead of shoving him off the edge like normal. Knowing Red, it's deliberate.

Sans shifts a little so he can go back to licking Red's throat. The bone tastes like lingering smoke, like he could get a contact high off it.

"Fuck, your mouth," Red says hoarsely. Before Sans can say that yes, that was on offer but Red turned it down, Red's grip tightens.

Sans muffles most of the desperate noise he makes into Red's throat. Not all of it. When he licks Red again, he tastes leather. The collar is blood warm. Intent hums faintly, possessively, magic layered on top of magic. Years of it have burned into the leather. It feels like Red and something else. Someone else.

He pulls back a little. Not the throat, then, not when he's this clumsy. With his free hand, he pushes Red's shirt up and touches his ribs. He needs to be doing something, he can't just lay here and take it. He needs to be worth it. He says, a little shaky, "I can suck you off."

"This is what I want," Red says. He doesn't stop. Maybe he'll just keep Sans like this, high and useless. "You're doing great."

Direct hit, and Red isn't even aiming. Sans squeezes his eyes shut, shuddering all the way down. He's so close, so fucking close, but it just isn't enough. The pleasure drags on and on, piling on top of him until he can't breathe.

"Relax," Red says, almost gentle. He speeds up, the wet slap of his hand obscene, cock so hard against Sans, solid and slick and good. A whimper slips past Sans's teeth. Voice rough, Red says, "Just like that. Let me--"

Sans doesn't hear the rest of what he's supposed to let Red do because he's too busy coming apart in his hands. It's awesome (in the terrifying sense) that his body could do this to him, feel like this, be played by Red like this. The noise that tears out of his throat is raw and involuntary, and Red echoes it, jerking himself off with the new slickness of Sans's come. He's rough like he's forgotten he's still holding Sans's dick against his own, wringing aftershocks out of Sans's bones. Uncoordinated, Sans tightens his grip around Red and helps him out. It's the least he can do.

"Fuck, it's so--" Red says, the words choppy and staccato. "You--" And then he's coming, hot against Sans's fingers. He shakes, his bones rattling.

Sans nuzzles his face. It seems like too much effort to actually kiss him, and Red is panting too hard anyway. "You're okay," Sans says. The words trip on their way off his tongue. "Totally brought that on yourself. Dunno what you expected."

Red laughs shakily, then starts to put his gross sticky jizz hand on Sans's back. Sans catches him by the wrist and drags Red's hand to his mouth. It seems more efficient to just lick it clean. Less laundry to deal with.

Red sits still for it, looking like he's stuck between bemused and turned on. When Sans sticks Red's fingers in his mouth, Red hooks them behind his teeth. His smile is dangerous when he says, "Don't tempt me."

There's spit welling in Sans's mouth. Red's fingers rest on his tongue. He looks Red in the face, trying to find that wire tension from earlier. No, Red definitely looks better. More relaxed. So Sans bites him.

He doesn't really know what he would've done if Red still looked stressed. He doesn't know what Red would've done.

Red snorts and pulls his fingers free, wiping the spit off on his own shirt. "Dick."

"Yep," Sans agrees. He puts his head back down on Red's shoulder, squirming into a comfortable position and ignoring Red's grumble. It feels like his bones are humming, the magic at his joints replaced with honey or something similarly useless as a bonding agent. Moving seems like a bad idea, especially when Red puts a hand on his spine and starts to pet him in long strokes like a cat. The purr thrums in Sans's throat.

"Thanks," Red says, almost too quiet to hear.

That probably requires some kind of answer. Sans pats him on the shoulder. "S'okay." A long moment of silence. Yeah, that's probably not sufficient. He tries again. "Something happen?"

"Yeah, we fucked," Red says. "Sorry you missed it."

"Mngh." Sans puts his hand back under Red's shirt so he can have bare bone under his hand. The cracks in Red's ribs have an interesting texture under his fingers, smoothing out with time and regular nutrition. He yawns. "I'm sure you showed me a good time."

"I think so," Red says, smug with a genuine question beneath. Sans nods and Red relaxes a little, his purr getting louder and surer. After a moment, Red says, "It's nothing. Just the normal bullshit."

"Hm." Sans rubs his cheek against Red's chest. "Sucks."

"Yeah." Red continues petting him. "Especially the part where we're trying to talk about feelings like a couple of assholes."

"I'm high," Sans says like that explains everything, because it actually does. He'd been planning to leave it alone. Basic courtesy. But if something was wrong, if there was a threat or some reason for Red to start stacking LV again, Sans wanted to at least see it coming. He never claimed not to be a hypocrite.

"You're high? Oh fuck, I better call the cops," Red says.

Sans laughs. "I should've stopped an hour ago." 

"Maybe," Red says. "Kinda glad you didn't. You're not trying to bail the second we're done, for one thing."

"You're just using me for the cuddling," Sans says.

"Yeah, you discovered my secret. Congrats." Red settles deeper into the couch like he means to stay there a while. "Boss isn't big on cuddling and I figure you're not gonna shank me."

"I might shank you," Sans says. His eyes keep closing without his permission. Rude. "You don't know."

"Well, now you spoiled the surprise." Red jiggles his leg, trying to get his attention. Sans growls. "Gimme your phone so I can text your bro that you're staying over."

"I'm gonna leave in a minute," Sans says. "Got stuff to do."

The machine. He could... look at it or something. Go through the blueprints again. Or he could shower the smoke off and not be a total fucking disaster in the morning for work. Lots of stuff.

"I'm too fucked up to take a shortcut which means you're definitely too fucked up to take a shortcut," Red says. "Fuck knows where you'd end up. My luck you'll drop off a waterfall and then your bro will kill me and my bro will kill me. It'll be fratricide central."

"Papyrus wouldn't kill anybody," Sans says. "He's too cool. He's just... he's the best person. I love him so much."

"Nice. Mine's an asshole." Red moves under him (unfortunate), reaching for Sans's shorts. Rifles through the pockets, makes a little 'aha' noise, and grabs Sans's coccyx. Sans yelps and Red says, "Put your pants back on."

"I'm getting mixed messages," Sans says.

"Hey, if you want Boss to see everything when he gets home, that's fine by me," Red says. "Pretty sure he wouldn't mind either."

"That's alarming." Sans drags his shorts back on. It's kind of a production. He makes sure to elbow Red a couple of times. Once that's done, he sighs, "Okay. Gimme the phone, I'll do it."

"As funny as it'd be to listen to you tell him you love him for twenty minutes, I already did the deed while you were trying to figure out pants," Red says.

"Oh." Sans turns that over in his head. "Red?"

"Yeah, babe." Red returns to petting him, steady, easy. 

Sans kind of wants to look at him but that's a lot of effort when he could listen to the beat of Red's soul instead. It doesn't beat like it's cracked. "You don’t sound high."

"I'm super fucked up," Red says cheerfully. "I'm just used to doing this alone."

That seems incredibly sad. Sans can picture it, Red rattling around the house waiting for Edge to come back from some patrol, too wary to relax but still needing something to take the edge off so he could last one more week, one more day, one more hour.

Sans nuzzles him. "You don't have to smoke alone anymore. If you ever need someone to be a total load, I'm here for you, buddy."

"A total load who's a great lay," Red says.

"That's either sweet or complete narcissistic bullshit," Sans says. Red shrugs, jostling his head, and Sans loses any affection for him forever, or at least for the next two minutes. "You wanna watch Mythbusters and complain about their research methodology?"

"Fuck yes," Red says fervently, and starts digging in the cushions for the remote. “I thought you’d never ask.”


	2. (bonus)

It's late when Edge gets home. There was yet another meeting, yet another dinner. He never met the Asgore of his own world, who only emerged from the castle to deal personally with monsters stupid enough to harm a monster child, but this version seems like a pale shadow. He's a broken man who tolerates open disrespect from his own people, who asks after how Edge is _feeling_ , and yet killed human children with his own hands. He engages in awkward small talk with humans. He makes time for people's petty problems. He begs to be overthrown and it's unfortunately Edge's job to prevent it. If Edge was meant for anything else than to be a weapon, he would leave the king to his inevitable messy downfall.

At least it lets him serve with this Undyne, who is enough like his own that he sometimes forgets himself. And there's Frisk, of course, who is tolerable for a human and still has all the survival skills of a lemming. Frisk needs him at their back to be ruthless where better monsters would flinch. He has (marginal) faith that Red can take care of himself in his absence.

Still, something in him uncoils each night when he opens the front door and finds Red unharmed. Usually he's stretched out on the couch. Sans sleeping draped on top of him is new.

Red cracks an eye open. His expression could be mistaken for lazy if Edge didn't know that Red doesn't need to be on his feet to kill someone. He's clearly intoxicated but not to the point of uselessness. Good. It's safer here, but there's always risk. When he sees Edge, the sudden tension leaves him. His voice is a little raspy. "Hey, boss."

Edge nods a terse greeting. As he sheds his jacket, he keeps his eyes on the couch. He can hear Sans purring from across the room, full-throated and shameless. He can't remember hearing that sound from Red. If he ever has, it's been years.

When he comes closer, careful to be silent, Sans doesn't stir. He could be faking it; Red has played that trick enough times on the unwary for Edge to entirely trust a sleeping Sans. Still, Sans always seems twitchy around Edge, slapping a careless grin on top of it like Edge is blind, never taking his eyes off him for a second. There's none of that quiet tension in him now.

Red is watching Edge's face like he can read Edge's train of thought there. His grin goes wolfish. This close, Edge can hear that Red is purring too, softer but steady. "Yeah. He crashed about twenty minutes ago. Guess I wore him out."

There's no question of how, not with the faint, lingering smell of sex in the air, not quite covered by the smoke. Edge is going to have to air out the house to get the smoke out; he can't stand the smell of it. If Red didn't need it...

A useless hypothetical. Red does need it. And Edge can't say he entirely minds seeing Red when he's not balanced on a knife's edge of bad nerves and perpetual seething rage. He enjoys the sex he has with Red, but it can't be described as easy unless Red has been smoking up. Then he becomes pliant, twining his arms around Edge, whispering almost-affection like a filthy secret.

Next time. He finds in himself a surprisingly lack of jealousy. Maybe it's just that Sans is no threat. Maybe it's the fact that Sans gives Red what Edge can't. Maybe it's that Edge wants Sans crying out in pleasure under him, a collar around his throat. Whatever the reason, he looks at the two of them and some restless part of him is satisfied. All things in their places, safe.

Holding Edge's eyes, Red lets the hand resting on Sans's back slowly run down his spine. When he reaches the waistband on Sans's shorts, he tugs the shirt up a little to show Edge a hint of smooth, bare bone. Red touches that vulnerable place with the tip of his fingers. He is Edge's instrument.

Sans sighs. Red smirks. Then Sans says, voice thick with sleepy irritation, "Quit bein' a creepy fuck. 'M sleepin'."

Grinning crookedly, Red says, "You caught me. Go back to sleep. Won't happen again."

"Better fuckin' not," Sans mutters. If he realizes Edge is hovering nearby, it doesn't stop him from going slack and falling immediately back into the deep, steady breathing of sleep.

Red looks down at Sans like a bit of machinery he wants to take apart, examining each component to see how it works. There's no guarantee that he'll put things back together when he's done with them. They tend to run better if he bothers. When he looks back at Edge, he doesn't need to say, _Look what I brought you._ Edge can see it in the pleased glitter of his eyes.

What Red actually says is, "Get me a drink."

Edge raises a brow. It's a look he's perfected just because of how often Red makes him do it.

"C'mon," Red wheedles. "Y'know how when you have a cat on you, you can't get up? It's a rule."

Sans is significantly less likely to maul someone than Doomfanger. Doomfanger is vicious enough with anyone but Edge that Edge isn't (entirely) worried about him without Edge's presence. In that way, the cat is probably better suited for survival than either of the men on his couch.

When Edge just continues to glare at him, Red sighs and says grudgingly, "Please."

Acceptable. Edge goes to the kitchen and retrieves a glass of water. If Red adds alcohol to cannabis, he tends to get depressed. Almost frighteningly so. And Edge isn't getting him mustard because fuck that, that's disgusting.

When he gives Red the glass, Red chugs half of it like it contains some sort of antidote. He sets the rest on the floor and wipes his mouth with his wrist. He says hoarsely, "Thanks."

There's a look in his eyes that says if Edge lingers, Red may say things with a smoke-loosened tongue that he'll feel compelled to make up for with cruelty in the morning. It would wake Sans beside. Neither of them get enough sleep, and Edge would like to encourage this to happen again. So Edge just hands Red his jacket and says, "Be careful of the spikes. If you kill him, I'm not vacuuming."

Red snickers, but he is careful when he lays the jacket over Sans's shoulders. "You going steady? Throwing me over for another Sans?"

"Spare me your insecurity," Edge says. Red's answering grin freezes when Edge reaches out and lays his fingers, very lightly, on Red's mouth. "Good work."

A small kindness. Red looks at him with horror, as if Edge just pulled out his own soul and crushed it in his hand.

It shouldn't be like this. But it is.

Edge takes his hand back. "Good night."

He takes his leave to his room and its empty bed. Let them sleep. Someone needs to keep watch.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: I should've added this before, but all due credit for the delightful purring skeletons headcanon should go to Lady_Kit. Go read her stuff if you haven't, she's awesome.


End file.
